Chapter 11 Sophia
SOPHIA
The burner phone feels like a live grenade in my trembling hands as I hide in the master bedroom bathroom, the shower running to mask any sound.
I’ve been staring at Melinda’s number for ten minutes, my thumb hovering over the call button.
Just do it. She deserves to know you’re alive.
I press dial before I can change my mind.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello?” Melinda’s voice is cautious, unfamiliar with the number.
Relief floods through me so intensely my knees buckle. “Mel, it’s me.”
“Sophia?” Her voice cracks. “Oh my god, Sophia! Where are you? Are you okay? The police said you disappeared, that there was no trace—”
“I’m alive. I can’t tell you where I am, but I’m…I’m okay.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
“What happened? Did someone take you?” She’s crying now, and guilt twists in my stomach.
“I can’t explain everything. Just know that I’m safe. I need you to stop looking for me. Tell everyone to stop looking.”
“Are you insane? Sophia, if someone’s forcing you to say this—”
“No one’s forcing me. I just…I need time. Please, Mel. Trust me.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything I can’t say. That I’m married to a mafia boss. That I’m falling for my captor. That I don’t even know who I am anymore.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I have to go.”
I end the call before she can respond and immediately delete the call history.
My hands shake as I hide the phone back in the drawer beneath my clothes, grateful this is one of the few rooms with no cameras.
The shower is still running, steam filling the bathroom, and I strip quickly and step under the hot spray.
I don’t know I’m crying until the water washes away my tears.
That evening, Mikhail and I circle each other in the bedroom like predators, the tension between us crackling like electricity.
We’ve been fighting all day about everything and nothing.
About the guards following me.
About the rules.
About the fact that he won’t let me leave the grounds even for a supervised walk.
“You’re being unreasonable,” I snap, pacing in front of the fireplace. The flames cast dancing shadows across his face, making him look even more dangerous than usual.
“I’m being protective.” His green eyes track my every movement. He’s sitting in the leather chair by the window, one ankle crossed over his knee, looking infuriatingly calm. “There’s a difference.”
“No, you’re being controlling. There’s a difference.” I stop pacing and face him, my hands on my hips. “I’m not a prisoner.”
His jaw tightens. “Aren’t you?”
The question hangs between us, brutal in its honesty. Because he’s right. I am a prisoner, no matter how gilded the cage.
“I hate you,” I say, but the words lack conviction.
“No, you don’t.” He stands and crosses to me in three long strides. “That’s what terrifies you.”
He’s too close now, invading my space, and I can smell his cologne mixed with something uniquely him.
My body responds despite my anger, heat pooling low in my belly.
“Don’t tell me what I feel,” I whisper, but I don’t step back.
“Your body tells me everything I need to know.” His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my lower lip. “You want me. Even when you hate me, you want me.”
I should slap him. Should push him away. But when his lips crash against mine, I kiss him back with all the fury and desire warring inside me.
The kiss is brutal, claiming, our teeth clashing as we fight for dominance.
His hands grip my hips, pulling me against him, and the hard pressure of his cock is a testament of how much he wants me. My nails rake down his back through his shirt.
I want to mark him, to hurt him the way he’s hurt me.
He breaks the kiss and spins me around, pressing me against the wall beside the fireplace.
The stone is cool against my heated skin as he pins my wrists above my head with one hand.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” he growls against my neck, his free hand sliding under my dress.
“I don’t—” The lie dies as his fingers find me through my panties, and I gasp.
“Liar.” His teeth graze my earlobe. “You’re already wet for me.”
I hate that he’s right.
Hate that my body betrays me every time he touches me.
But I can’t stop the moan that escapes when he pushes my panties aside and slides two fingers inside me.
“Mikhail,” I breathe, my head falling back against his shoulder.
“That’s right. Say my name.” He works me with his fingers, his thumb circling my clit with maddening precision. “Let everyone in this house know who makes you feel this way.”
The orgasm builds quickly, coiling tight in my core. I’m so close, trembling on the edge, when he suddenly stops and withdraws his hand.
“No,” I whimper, loathing how desperate I sound.
He releases my wrists and turns me to face him. His green eyes are dark with desire, his breathing as ragged as mine. “Bed. Now.”
I should refuse. Should make him work for it. But I’m already moving toward the bed, my legs unsteady.
He follows, stripping off his shirt as he walks.
The firelight plays across his muscled chest, highlighting the scars and scabs marking his skin.
Each one tells a story of violence, of survival, of a life I’m only beginning to understand.
When he reaches me, he’s gentle as he unzips my dress and lets it pool at my feet.
His hands skim over my skin, raising goosebumps in their wake.
This tenderness is somehow more devastating than his roughness.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck. “So perfect.”
He lays me on the bed and takes his time removing my bra and panties, his eyes drinking in every inch of exposed skin.
When I’m finally naked beneath him, he just looks at me for a long moment.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“I’m memorizing you.” His voice is rough with emotion. “Every curve. Every freckle. The way you look at me like you can’t decide if you want to kill me or kiss me.”
“Both,” I admit. “Always both.”
He smiles, and it transforms his face. For a moment, I see the man he might have been if violence hadn’t shaped him. If grief hadn’t hardened him.
Then he’s kissing me again, slower this time, deeper.
His hands map my body with reverent touches that make my heart ache.
When he finally enters me, it’s with a gentleness that brings tears to my eyes.
We move together in the firelight, our bodies finding a rhythm that feels inevitable.
This isn’t the rough, punishing sex of before.
This is something else. Something that terrifies me more than any violence could.
“Look at me,” he commands softly, and I open my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that steals my breath. “I want to see you when you come.”
His hand slides between us, finding my clit, and the dual sensation pushes me over the edge.
I cry out his name as pleasure crashes through me, my inner walls clenching around him.
He follows moments later, burying his face in my neck as he finds his release. We stay locked together, breathing hard, neither of us willing to break the connection.
Finally, he rolls to his side and pulls me against his chest. I should move away.
Should put distance between us.
But I’m exhausted, emotionally and physically, and his warmth is too comforting to resist.
“I need to show you something,” he says after a long silence.
I lift my head to look at him. “What?”
“Come with me.” He stands and pulls on his pants, then offers me his hand.
Curiosity overrides my caution.
I slip on his discarded shirt, the hem brushing my mid-thigh, and take his hand.
He leads me out of the bedroom and down the hall to a door I’ve never seen open.
“This is my private study,” he says, producing a key. “No one comes in here. Not even Elena.”
The door swings open to reveal a room that takes my breath away. Every wall is covered with photographs. And they’re all of the same girl.
Nicole.
I move closer, studying the images.
Nicole as a baby, held by a much younger Mikhail.
Nicole on her first day of school, gap-toothed and grinning.
Nicole at her sweet sixteen party, beautiful in a blue dress that matches her eyes.
“She wanted to be a doctor,” Mikhail says quietly behind me. “She was so smart. Top of her class. She had this way of seeing the good in everyone, even people who didn’t deserve it.”
I turn to look at him. He blinks back tears, but a few still track down his face. It’s the first time I’ve seen him cry, and it breaks something inside me.
“She sounds amazing,” I whisper.
“She was.” He moves to a desk in the corner and picks up a framed photo. “This was taken two weeks before she died. She didn’t know she was pregnant yet. Didn’t know what those monsters had done to her would destroy her life.”
He hands me the photo, and I study Nicole’s smiling face. She looks so young, so innocent. Nothing like the broken girl Mikhail described.
“I failed her,” he says, his voice cracking. “I was supposed to protect her, and I failed.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” I set down the photo and move to him, placing my hand on his chest. “What happened to her was evil, but you didn’t cause it.”
“I should have been there. Should have known something was wrong. Should have—”
“Stop.” I cup his face, forcing him to look at me. “You can’t change the past. You can only choose what you do now.”
“I chose revenge.” His hands come up to cover mine. “I chose to make your father pay. To make you pay.”
“I know.” And I do. I understand his pain, even if I can’t yet forgive what he’s done to me. “But revenge won’t bring her back.”
“Nothing will bring her back.” He pulls away and moves to the window, staring out at the dark grounds. “That’s why I have to make sure her death meant something. That the people who hurt her suffer.”
I want to argue.
Want to tell him that more violence won’t heal his wounds.
But I’m starting to understand that some wounds never heal.
They just become part of who you are.
I move to stand beside him, and we’re both silent, lost in our own thoughts. Outside, the guards patrol the perimeter, their flashlights cutting through the darkness.
“Thank you for showing me this,” I say finally. “For letting me see this part of you.”
He turns to me, and the vulnerability in his eyes catches in my throat. “You’re the only person I’ve ever brought in here. The only person I’ve wanted to share this with.”
Before I can respond, before I can process what that means, he’s kissing me again.
And this time, when we make love on the floor of his sister’s shrine, it feels like a promise. Or maybe a prayer.
Hours later, I wake in our bed with no memory of how we got there. Mikhail’s arm is draped across my waist, his breathing deep and even. The clock on the nightstand reads 3:47 a.m.
I’m just drifting back to sleep when I hear it.
Gunshots.
Multiple gunshots, echoing through the halls like thunder.
I bolt upright, my heart hammering. Beside me, Mikhail is already moving, reaching for the gun he keeps in the nightstand.
“Stay here,” he orders, his voice deadly calm despite the chaos erupting outside our door.
More gunshots. Shouting. The sound of breaking glass.
“What’s happening?” I clutch the sheet to my chest, terror flooding through me.
“We’re under attack.” He’s pulling on clothes with practiced efficiency. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“Mikhail—”
He kisses me hard and fast. “I’ll come back for you. I promise.”
Then he’s gone, disappearing into the hallway where the sounds of violence grow louder with each passing second.
I’m alone in the darkness, listening to gunfire and screams, and all I can think is how I’d called Melinda.
This is my fault. I led them here.